oh lucifer, what have you done
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Death comes for us all, a natural part of life. C. M. Burns devised a method a long time ago to prolong his life. His friend, Waylon Sr. knew of this, and refused to partake in the project. When Waylon Jr. learns of it from his father's journal, his world is turned upside-down, and he needs some time alone. He takes a drive...
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 _I couldn't leave things well enough alone with a happy ending, it seems. At the end of the Nuclear Tetralogy there were still a few loose ends I left deliberately unattended to; like what happened to one of my OCs at the end of_ Unfolding. _Why wasn't he around? Why did I make that choice? This'll explain that. The other is the secret of Montgomery Burns' long life (addressed in_ NA _). What does happen with that choice he's making? Well, I've been definitely wondering that since the beginning._

 _I wasn't originally going to post this here. I resisted, vehemently on principle. I prefer to reserve this site for what I consider the best parts of my work._ _I eventually uploaded it to my DeviantArt account. There it sat for a bit while I debated with myself. I tend to be reluctant to post stories online; especially short pieces like this. But the more I reread it, the more I found I actually liked it... so, here it is!_

 _When I started this, I wasn't sure if it would be real, foreshadowing, or possibly even a nightmare. Now that it's done, I'd confess I'm still not quite sure._ oh lucifer _, my little odd-duckling piece; you grew up to become a swan._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~ Muse_

* * *

"I found my father's journal the other day," Smithers remarked as casually as he could over breakfast one morning.

"Oh, did you now?" Burns asked carefully.

Smithers nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Read them, did you?" Burns inquired, looking down at his plate with a sudden intensity.

"I skimmed," replied Smithers.

"I see."

Smithers set down his fork and rested his chin in his hand. "There was a part that I almost couldn't believe was true; but even moreso, I can't believe it's made up. I wanted to ask you about it, Monty."

Burns didn't meet Smithers' eyes. "Well, stop beating around the bush and damn well ask it then," he sighed. His mind took him back through all the memories he had shared with Smithers' father. He was more than a little concerned what his lover might find.

"It has to do with the lab in the basement."

Burns stiffened. He'd never told Smithers anything about his private lab. Oh sure, Smithers knew of its existence, but definitely not all of his secret projects.

Smithers sat up and clasped his hands in front of him. "He said you were taking injections, the sort that could prolong life."

"Really," Burns replied, not meeting Smithers eyes. "He said that, did he." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Smithers paused. "He said you were giving some to your favorite dog, Crippler."

Burns nodded. "I deny nothing so far," he said, tone guarded.

"I have to ask, Monty, is that the same 'Crippler' that you have now?"

"I have a hound named Crippler?"

Smithers narrowed his eyes. "Don't play coy with me. You know your dogs better than I do. And I know for a fact you have an old one named Crippler living now." Smithers lowered his head, and spoke slowly, drawing each word for emphasis. "Is that the same dog, Monty?"

Burns made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and looked away.

"Yes or no?" Smithers demanded.

"Eh," Burns paused and fidgeted before finally relenting. "Yes, Waylon. It is."

Smithers leaned back and drummed his hands on the table nervously. "Jesus, Monty. That dog's nearly as old as I am."

"Older, actually," Burns confessed. "We got him two years before you were born."

Smithers swore violently and rubbed his face. "And you're still taking these injections?"

"Old habits die hard, my boy," Burns confessed. He reached across the table to take Smithers' hand, but Smithers jerked away.

"No. Don't touch me. If you've managed to make a dog live well beyond normal years… my god… what does that mean for you?"

Burns sighed. "In part, Waylon, it means I may very well live long enough to see everyone I hold dear die. I've outlived so many. More gone every year. And yet, through it all, I don't wish to die. I'm afraid of what might lay beyond this life."

"So you're willing to say goodbye to me, watch me grow old and die, all because you're afraid of a natural part of life?" Smithers pushed himself back from the table.

"Waylon, please. This isn't about you!"

"No?" demanded Smithers. He stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table. "Well maybe it should be." He turned and started to leave.

"Damn it man, you're starting to sound like your father."

Smithers paused, and looked scornfully over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you always wanted, Monty?" He made a snort of disgust. "At least one of us does." With that, he stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

Burns sat in silence, unmoving. He waited, hoping against logic that Smithers would come back.

He's gone, the little voice in Burns' head muttered softly. There's no telling when he'll be back.

"I know," Burns murmured aloud, and dropped his face into his hands. Unbidden, a line from an old poem he once saw Waylon Sr. reading passed from his lips: "'Light breaks where no light was before; where no eye is prepared to see, and animals rise up to walk; oh lucifer, what have you done.'"


	2. Chapter 2

_oh where have you fallen to_

 _son of the morning_

 _beautiful lucifer_

 _bringer of light_

 _it is all shadow_

 _in heaven without you_

 _the cherubim sing_

 _kaddish_

 _and even the_

 _solitary broth_

 _has risen from his seat_

 _of stones he is holding_

 _they say a wooden stick_

 _and pointing toward_

 _a garden_

 _light breaks_

 _where no light was before_

 _where no eye is prepared_

 _to see_

 _and animals rise up to walk_

 _oh lucifer_

 _what have you done_

\- Lucille Clifton

* * *

Smithers stormed down to the garage, intent on taking a long drive. He had no specific destination in mind, but he needed to clear his head. He felt that he'd be gone a while. He'd packed a change of clothes in his day bag, and brought his terrier Hercules along. It was not his intent to stay gone, but he needed some time. The manor, and even Springfield itself, suddenly felt too small for him.

He needed the soothing lull of the open road, miles spooling away beneath his tires.

The term 'garage' was a bit of a misnomer. 'Museum' might've been better. It was located in the lower level of the manor, making use of some of the original architecture, but retrofitted. The floor was black and white checkered tiles. The central ceiling was part of the original manor construction, angled stone and brickwork supported by arches and columns. The sides were lined with brightly illuminated garage bays for Burns' expansive automobile collection and the Durango they both shared.

The Stutz Bearcat, the Royce, the Bentley, a Tucker Torpedo, and more. Smithers made his way down to the key rack. The set to his Porsche hung on the pegboard. He reached for his key, then paused, looking back over his shoulder at the gallery of high-end automobiles. Compared to most of the garage, his Porsche was a modest little thing.

Smithers debated, but only for a moment, before snatching the keys to Burns' prized Aston Martin Vantage, and storming off. Rebellion and defiance at its finest. He'd take the Martin, and he'd be back when _he_ felt like it.

Smithers tore out of the manor, barely allowing the gate enough time to swing open before he cut through. He headed west, on the main road, retracing the route he and Burns had taken so many months before. He'd been to the badlands, but never further. _There has to be more than this_ , he thought sullenly.

Before he reached the mountains, he paused at Danny's Discount Gas. He filled the Martin's tank to the brim, bought a pack of cigarettes, and slung himself leanly back into the car.

Smithers stuck a cigarette between his lips, and dug in his back for his lighter, found it, and held the flame to his face.

Smithers took a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and exhaled slowly. How long had it been since he'd smoked? Weeks, months maybe? Burns would always reprimand him whenever Burns caught him in the act. If Burns found one of Smithers' packs lying about, he'd throw it in the trash, then give Smithers a firm lecture on the dangers of tobacco.

 _Oh you old hypocrite_ , Smithers thought as savored the sensation. _You can inject god only knows what into your body, and that's fine. I can't even enjoy a cigarette without a riot act. Well, just try to stop me now!_ He laughed aloud, and drummed his hands on the wheel. He let the smoke trickle from his mouth and nose, and smiled as the mountains approached.

From the passenger seat came a small cough.

Smithers glanced over.

Hercules was watching him reproachfully with his dark shoebutton eyes. As if on cue, the terrier sniffed the air, then coughed again.

"Agh," Smithers groaned softly. "Not you too now."

He cracked down the window and held the tip of the cigarette close to the opening, drawing the smoke away.

"You never objected before, Herc," he noted. "Monty got to you too, eh?"

The terrier, of course, said nothing. He merely tilted his head, then curled up in a ball and put his nose under his stubby tail.

Smithers sighed, took one last draw on his cigarette, then snubbed it out in the ashtray. "Fine," he announced, reaching over the pat the dog. "Is that better now?"

Hercules give his hand a lick, as if to say yes.

"Well Waylon," Smithers remarked as the Martin wove like a raptor through the foothills, "you have a full tank of gas, a pack of cigarettes, and an open road. What are you going to do with yourself?"

He reached over and switched off the onboard GPS. "I'm going for a drive," he replied.

The Aston Martin slipped into the broad tunnel that cut under the snowcapped peaks, and barreled west. Once on the other side, he pushed down the accelerator and let loose. The four hundred plus horses under the hood, now unfettered on the open road, kicked up their heels in delight. Smithers opened the throttle, shifted easily though the gears, and smiled. In seconds, he was eating up highway miles like nothing.

He blasted past the old turn off to AlkaliStark without a second thought. A year ago, he'd never been as far into the badlands as AlkaliStark, now he was already miles beyond. There was no cell service out this far, and the Martin's GPS was turned off.

"Let's see where the road takes us," he announced to Hercules, and, without waiting for a response, he upshifted once more, and hit a comfortable cruising speed over one hundred-fifty miles per hour. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he was making great time.

* * *

The roads through the badlands were mostly straight, cutting through the land with the precision and subtly of a knife.

It had been nearly an hour since Smithers had passed any signs of civilization. Despite his earlier rebelliousness, a faint sense of apprehension gnawed at his stomach. Sooner or later, he'd need to refuel. Running out of gas out here could be practically a death sentence. It might be hours, or even days, before another car came along. Add in the fact there was no cell service, nor had he even bothered to tell Burns he was leaving, it could be an uncomfortably long time to be stranded.

Up ahead, a green information sign was rapidly approaching. Smithers tapped the brake and downshifted, bringing the Martin to a crawl of a mere fifty miles per hour. He slowed even further as he neared the sign.

"Dry Feather," the sign said, with an arrow pointing to a junction ahead. "11 miles. Food, Gas, Bed." Below that, in smaller letters: "Next fuel, 130mi."

Smithers glanced at the fuel gauge. Trying to make it to the next gas station would be dicey at best. Far better to take a quick jaunt up to Dry Feather, refuel, then decide what to do next.

He drove at a reasonable speed, not the hammer-down pace he'd kept on the straight ways, and followed the signs to Dry Feather. _Strange name_ , he thought to himself. The again, he'd never been out this way. He wasn't sure what to expect. Whatever it was, at least it would give him time to think.

He felt sick inside, thinking of Burns and those injections. He'd hoped, in his heart, that he and Monty could grow old together. Smithers always expected that he'd be the one to outlive his lover; that he'd have to learn to adapt to his own twilight years alone in Burns Manor.

That thought had always saddened him, but he was prepared for it. Growing old alone was not the worst thing in the world.

Growing old, and being left behind was.

Smithers didn't have children or siblings that he knew of, and though he had cousins, they'd drifted apart: casualties of the quiet wedge that adulthood seemed to be. Time, distance, and lifestyle caused slow gaps. Aside from Burns there was no one Smithers could consider himself particularly close to. Sure, he reasoned, he had a few good friends out east in New York, but that was still different from having close friends and family in town.

Smithers had resigned himself to outliving Burns. He had accepted it as a natural part of their relationship. It was how things would be, he had reasoned.

Not so anymore.

Burns would long outlive him.

Smithers would grow old, feeble of body (and maybe mind), and would be left to hope that somehow Monty would tend to him. Smithers blinked tears out of his eyes. For all Monty loved him, Smithers knew caregiving was not in the man's skillset. Burns was too short-tempered, too mercurial. He lacked the focus and dedication needed to nurture a man during those last years.

"He'll send me to some nursing home, or hire someone else to take care of me. All the while, he'll move on," he admitted to the terrier beside him.

Smithers sniffed, and wiped a hand across his face.

"Of course he'll say he'll take care of me, but he'll lose interest. It will start small, a little thing here or there, but then he'll be off on his own, and sending others to check in on me. He'll ask how my day went, and I'll have nothing to tell him. He'll tell me of his latest ventures, then, oh I can hear him now: 'I have a dinner downtown with the Mayor and Senator Whoever, I'd invite you Waylon, but you're too tired. Don't worry, I'll have a marvelous time in your absence, and be sure to tell you all the gossip when I return. Don't wait up for me, my dear.'" Smithers swallowed hard.

"He'll move on, find some new young thing to catch his eye. I'll pretend to be happy for him, all the while knowing my life has become a joke in both our minds."

 _Yes_ , he reasoned silently _, it would happen something exactly like that._

He'd nearly worked himself into a full-blown crying jag when the dusty town of Dry Feather came into view.

A single sign stood by the side of the road. The first line, "Welcome to Dry Gulch," had been struck out with a single line. Beneath that the words "Welcome to Bad Feather" had likewise been struck through.

Finally, the bottom line, in largest print announced: "Welcome to Dry Feather! We're glad to have you."

It all seemed vaguely surreal to Smithers. He followed the single chip-and-tar road towards the town.


	3. Chapter 3

The road into Dry Feather was roughly paved, as if the idea had been more of an afterthought. The white line ran along a pitted and crumbling edge that immediately gave way to the rocky desert. No shoulder to speak of.

Up ahead, he saw the overhang of a gas station roof, peeking above the leafless scrub trees. He pulled in, and looked for a credit card slot. There was none. The old pump had two nozzles, one on each end, but no slot for bills or a card. Smithers noted the tally numbers weren't even digital. Analog wheels spun the numbers into sight through a small window. There were three such displays. One read "This Sale." On read "gallons," and the other displayed the price.

Smithers looked at the price, then rubbed his slightly red eyes and did a double take. The price, it couldn't be right. It read in at just over a dollar per gallon. There were no octane choices. Just two identical, antiquated pumps.

Smithers wrinkled his brow and stepped out of the car. Immediately he was greeted by the hot, dry desert air. Any tears that had attempted to escape his eyes were whisked away in the desiccating breeze.

Smithers rolled down the windows for Hercules, grabbed his wallet, and headed into the store. A bell on a curved spring jingled as he walked in.

The store appeared to be empty.

Smithers grabbed a cola and peered around the counter. "Hello?" he called, mildly nervous. "I'd like to get some fuel."

He heard the sound of a screen door open with a squeal, then swing shut with a slam. A man with a face like a weatherworn road map walked over to the counter and smiled pleasantly. "How many gallons ya got?" he asked.

"Eh, I haven't pumped any yet," Smithers replied, perplexed.

The man gave a laugh, his yellow teeth matching his dark-tanned skin. "Hah, well how are ya gonna pay if ya ain't got none? There's yer problem, son." He chuckled and gestured towards the pump. "Why doncha fell that purdy car of yours, then come back and tell me whatcha got."

"Aren't you afraid people will drive off without paying?" Smithers asked, wrinkling his brow.

The man shook his head. "Ain't got much a problem with that round these parts," he replied. "Imma be out back. Yell when yer ready." He turned his back and went out the screen door, letting it slam shut behind him.

"Uhm, right then," Smithers muttered to himself.

It took Smithers a minute to figure out how to work the pump. Once the nozzle was removed, a small lever had to be pushed down across the nozzle receptacle on the pump. Only after he did that did it whir to life. The rest of the refueling was a standard process.

The Aston Martin had a twenty gallon tank. Smithers was able to fill the half-full tank to the top for less than fifteen dollars. It was practically unheard of. He hoped it was good fuel. But even if it wasn't, he'd be able to put some higher octane gasoline in when he got back to civilization. A single tank of low-grade wouldn't destroy the engine… he hoped.

Smithers let himself back into the shop, and handed a hundred dollar bill to the shopkeep. The man took it, wrinkled his face thoughtfully, then opened the till drawer. "Yer lucky I can break this," he remarked as he counted the change by hand. "Most o' these days, I cain't. But today's yer luckey day, eh?"

He dropped a fifty, a twenty, a few small bills and some coins into Smithers' hand with his arthritis-gnarled fingers. "There y'go. Don't be spending it all in one place, aright?" He gave Smithers a friendly tip of his hat, slid the bottle of pop across the counter, and headed back outside.

"Right. Thank you," Smithers called after him.

The man was already gone.

Smithers shrugged and shook his head. How strange, he thought. Interesting way of conducting business. Aside from the gas station, there was hardly anything else but desert to see.

"We're in 'god's country' now, aren't we Herc?" he assessed, sliding back into the driver's seat and buckling his seatbelt. He rolled the windows down all the way. Hercules stood up in the passenger-side seat, put his paws on the window, and looked out, panting happily.

"I guess we might as well head further into town," Smithers observed, peering through the windshield. From the parkinglot by the gas pumps, Smithers could make out what appeared to be a T-shaped intersection up ahead with a single red-blinking stop light. The road he was on continued, but there was a junction off it, and beyond Smithers thought he could make out some buildings shimmering in the heat of the afternoon sun.

Smithers turned the ignition, and the Martin started with an enthusiastic growl.

Driving slowly, Smithers came to the intersection. It hadn't been a "T" like he thought. It was actually a four-way. The road to the right was even more roughly paved, but curved into a mainstreet running between two rows of close-set wooden buildings. The road to the left appeared to go off into nothing but desert. He had no idea where the road directly in front of him went. The ground ahead rose slightly. It looked like more mountains in the distance ahead.

Smithers shrugged and turned right, heading towards town.

The buildings had a very classic western style to them. For all he knew, Smithers might as well have driven back into the pages of one of his cowboy novels. The road was flanked by the traditional square buildings of a wild west town.

The road itself was hard-packed gravel, with cobble lined gutters, and sidewalks leading up to the buildings. Though once brightly painted, time and the relentless sun had muted the colours down to washed out ghosts of their former glory. The red false-fronted hotel had faded to a dusty rose hue.

There wasn't much space to park. A few alleys here and there, but mostly it appeared people just parked their cars at the street edge, out of the way as much as possible. Not that there were many cars. A few pick-up trucks here and there; and one ancient El Camino, paint looking as faded as the rest of the landscape.

Several of the buildings had the traditional "bat-wing" doors he'd seen in spaghetti westerns.

The El Camino was parked beside one building labeled "Dry Feather Eatery" He pulled the Martin in behind the El Camino, and was debating what to do about Hercules when he saw a patron exit through the swinging doors, and rangy cattle-dog following at his heel. Perhaps they were informal here.

Smithers rolled up the windows, locked the car, scooped Hercules up under an arm, and made his way in.

A few people looked up as he entered, but no one paid him or the dog much mind. The place was set up similar to a classic diner, which, Smithers had to admit, was a bit at odds with the western feel of the building's front. A few people, men and women, sat around at small tabled eating soups, sandwiches, and the occasional salad. The sign by the door said "seat yourself." Smithers sat himself down at a table for two, and put Hercules in the chair across from him.

A server came over, gave a menu to Smithers, and placed a dish with a dog biscuit in front of Hercules.

The terrier wagged his stub tail happily, and snatched the treat.

"I hope you don't mind the dog," Smithers began.

"We get 'em all the time," the server replied. "What'll you two want to drink?"

"Just water to start with, for both of us."

The woman nodded, and left.

Smithers took a moment to read through the menu. It was pretty standard sandwich-shop fare. The grilled cheese and tomato soup combo looked good. Comfort food, he thought. He was in the mood for comforting. He ordered the combo, and read a newspaper that had been left on the table while he waited.

All the stories were small town news. There wasn't much interesting. He sat back, stared out the window, and waited for his meal.

"You staying the night?" the server asked him as she set his plate down.

"I wasn't planning on it," he admitted. "I was just going to fuel up and keep going."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Well, if I were you, I'd rethink that. You don't want to get caught out there after dark, you know."

Smithers almost laughed inspite of himself. "Why not?" he asked. "What's the worst that could happen? A few ornery coyotes?" He smiled.

The server pursed her lips. "You shouldn't joke about stuff like that," she replied. "Some folk might take it as gospel. Well, regardless, by sunset you'd better be yourself square and tucked in for the night." She glanced at a clock on the wall.

Smithers followed her gaze. It was already late afternoon! Almost five. How did that even happen? He shook his head. "Is that clock right?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

The server gave him a curt smile. "Is yours?" she asked, gesturing to his left side.

Smithers always kept his pocket watch in his left hip pocket. He fished it out, and opened the cover. The clock on the wall was right. If anything, it might've even been a few minutes slow. Ordinarily, Smithers would've laughed about the idea of staying out past dark, but something in the woman's eyes gave him pause for thought.

"Well," she began, her dark eyes looking at him without a hint of jest. "No one can make you stay. But if I were you, I'd strongly consider it. There's a boarding house down the road, a short walk. And just beyond that Casey's General Store. You can get some food for your dog if you haven't packed any. A little dish too." She reached over and held her hand out for Hercules to sniff.

Hercules looked her hand up and down, gave a discriminating sniff, and appeared to decide she was okay. He wagged his tail, then looked back to his Smithers as if to ask: are we staying here?

Smithers thought about Burns back at the manor. The man would probably be getting ready to launch a massive search party in a few hours. _Let him_ , Smithers thought angrily. _He deserves it._ He nodded thoughtfully and looked up at the server. "You know, I might just stay here tonight. That could be nice."

She smiled primly. "I'm glad. It's better for the two of you."

Smithers had a sudden and peculiar feeling that when she said "two," she wasn't talking about Hercules. In the back of his mind, Smithers almost felt like he'd done this before. It was like deja-vu. A strange yet familiar sensation; but the moment he tried to recall it exactly, everything vanished again, leaving him bound to the present. He glanced at his watch again. Time moved on, relentless and impatient.


	4. Chapter 4

Smithers stopped by the car to get Hercules' leash out of the front seat. He clipped it to the terrier's plaid collar, then walked down to the general store. This building, at least, had a solid door. The interior though, was like stepping back in time.

The shelves were lined with various boxes and produce. There was no cooler that he could see, but a sign above the meat counter said: "ask us about our fresh milk!"

Barrels of crackers and dried vegetables lined one wall next to a wood-burning Ben Franklin Stove, a so-called "Pennsylvania fireplace." Smithers recognized it because the servants' quarters in the manor had similar stoves to keep the rooms warm. The shelf next to an antique-style cash register was full of glass jars containing various candies. Prices ranged from a quarter for the fancy ones to a penny per gumball. Smithers couldn't remember having even seen penny candy before, though he knew the phrase.

The grocer, an aged black haired woman with slightly exotic features smiled warmly at him and Hercules. "If you need help finding anything," she said in a gentle, dusty voice, "please ask."

Smithers nodded. "Thank you."

It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. Near the back of the general store, with the household items as a small section of pet supplies. He grabbed three cans of dog food, more than he probably needed, and two small plastic crock dishes. He couldn't think of anything else he'd need. He already had toiletries in his day bag.

Hercules following at his heel, he brought the items over and set them on the counter. The woman rang them up, and quoted a price that seemed much lower than he was expecting. "Are you sure you got everything?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled, and blinked her dark eyes slowly. "Absolutely. Three cans of Lucky Dog, food dish and water dish. Unless there's anything else you need?"

"No, no," he replied awkwardly; fishing into his wallet for the singles he'd gotten in change earlier. He slid them over to her, and received a handful of coins back. One of the coins was a quarter with a hole through the center of it. Curious, he picked it up and peered through the hole. "Did somebody shoot this thing?" he asked jokingly. The date on the quarter placed it back in the 1920s.

The woman's brow furrowed, and she tilted her hear. Again, that odd, slow blink. "No, now," she replied, echoing his own words. "It's just for luck, that's all. You shouldn't spend that one."

Smithers deftly flipped the quarter in the air, and caught it in his palm.

"That a silver one," she explained, pointing at the quarter. "Nineteen twenty three. Standing Liberty. A good year."

"Was it?" Smithers asked, taking a closer look at the quarter.

The woman nodded. "So I've been told," she replied with a shrug.

Smithers wrinkled his brow, and slid the quarter into his right hip pocket, away from the other coins. He bagged the food and dishes into a brown paper bag and started to leave when the woman stopped him, laying a hand on his arm.

"Here, take this too," she said, offering up a length of thin, braided leather. "For the coin," she explained, noting his puzzled expression. She glanced at a clock on the wall by the door. "You'd best be going now. It's getting late."

"Huh?" Smithers started, looking at the clock. Well over an hour had passed, shadows were already lengthening across the street. "You'd best be getting on The Roost," she said, a faint hint of urgency to her tone. "You don't want to be caught outside after dark."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Smithers asked, as much to himself as the grocer.

She didn't respond, and when Smithers turned to ask her again, she was already gone.

Smithers shivered slightly, and let himself out onto the empty street. Aside from one or two trucks, and his Aston Martin the street had cleared out. Only a lone brown horse stood, tied to a hitching post outside of the diner. The gravel crunched under his feet, white rock powder covering his shoes. Somewhere, in the distance a dog barked once, then was still. Beyond that, there was not a single sound aside from his own footfall on the dusty road.


	5. Chapter 5

Smithers walked the few doors back to The Roost, the only lodging in town. Looking every inch the hotel saloon of western movies, The Roost was a two story building with a wrap-around balcony and bat-wing doors. He walked up the steps onto the wooden porch. Already he could hear the low din of people talking, and a piano playing.

Hercules at his heel, he pushed open the swinging doors, and stepped down into the sunken main room.

The inside of the roost matched the outside, board for board, right down to the square nails: The Roost was accurate down to the tiniest details. Rows of bottles lined a mirror behind the bar, animal horns on the walls, and a pair of crossed sabers hung by a wood stove.

Most of the patrons were dressed in western attire. Smithers found himself feeling distinctly out of place, with his bowtie, and green blazer. Even Hercules looked out of place, the diminutive terrier, more a house pet than any sort of ranch dog. Smithers glanced in the corner. The music was coming from an old player piano, keys dropping as if pressed by phantom hands, the music spool slowly revolving. Smithers didn't recognize the piece. It was distinctly western, and turn of the century, but it wasn't by any composer he knew.

One of the other things Smithers noticed was the mix of people in the room. Two women at a table in the corner playing cards. Next to them, a man of clearly Asian heritage and many years in the sun sat, reading a book and drinking tea.

The man behind the bar had his back turned, but Smithers could guess at his African descent. His hair was left natural: a voluminous and leonine mane that curled handsomely about his broad shoulders. His head was bowed as he worked, hair falling forward. Even with the mirror, Smithers couldn't get a good view of his face.

Smithers made his way down to the bar, a long slice of tree trunk cut lengthwise, and pulled up a tall chair. It made a rough noise against the pine-plank flooring.

The bartender paused, turned and looked up with a smile. His face was open and pleasant, skin the colour of warm hazelnut. His nose was broad, but shapely, and he had a gold ring through each ear.

"Well, what can I do for you today…" his voice trailed off.

The bartender's deep eyes met Smithers' brown ones, and recognition flashed through them both.

Smithers face split into a broad grin, but before he could even speak, the bartender cut him off.

"Waylon, honey, my god, what are _you_ doing here? You're not supposed to _be here!_ " The man glanced a quick flash of apprehension passed behind his eyes. Fortunately, none of the other patrons so much as noticed.

The slowly slid of Smithers' face, replaced by a look of confusion. "Leon," he said softly, "what do you mean?"

Leon drew a strong hand over his lips, and paused, chewing on a thumbnail before jerking his hand away. He glanced around nervously, then beckoned Smithers closer. "Look, I'm not supposed to say anything…" his eyes flicked to a grandfather clock in the corner. It was already past eight. "But then again, you are here, aren't you." Leon reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a silver pocket watch, very simple compared to Smithers' lion-faced one. Smithers couldn't see the face of Leon's watch.

The dark skinned man appeared to relax slightly, but just slightly.

"Well, my dear, I never expected to see you again so soon. I suppose you'll be staying the night?"

Smithers nodded, perplexed. "I was going to keep going, but I needed to refuel, then time just got away from me I guess."

Leon nodded. "Time has a way of doing that." He paused and yelled back to the kitchen. "Hey, Maurice, come look after your bar for a while, okay?" He reached over and covered Smithers' hand with his strong but smooth palm. "Come with me. Let's sit by the fire for a while. We don't have much time before we all retire for the night, but at the very least we can catch up on some stories, eh?" He gave Smithers a gentle wink, and slid out from behind the bar.

Draping an arm about Smithers' waist in a way that seemed a purely innocent gesture, he guided Smithers to a table in the corner by the wood stove. "It gets cool around here at night," he said softly. "Remember, this will keep us warm."

Leon pulled out a seat for Smithers, then sat down next to him. He took Smithers' hands in his, and rubbed them briskly as if to warm them. "I'm glad to see you, Waylon, but I'm worried about you. Not sure how you found our little town of Dry Feather, but when morning comes, promise me, _promise me_ , you'll head back the way you came." There was an urgency in his voice that Smithers couldn't deny.

He pressed his palms together between Leon's. "I promise."

Leon seemed to relax; he held Smithers' hands a second longer, then released them. He breathed a sigh of relief, and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm sorry I wasn't around when you left Plateau City. I wanted to say goodbye, I truly did, but I got a call, you know. The sort I had to attend to. Ah," he leaned forward and patted Hercules, but that's enough about me. So tell me, how did things pan out with that man you fancied?" He gestured to the white gold band on Smithers' right ring finger. "I don't remember seeing _that_ before."

Smithers blushed, and ran his hand over the ring. "I'd guess you'd say they worked out fairly well. It's not perfect though."

"Is anything?"

Smithers shrugged. "Probably somewhere."

"Ah, perfection is not for the living, my dear. It's a chance for the living to learn what perfect is, and what it's not. Strive towards improving oneself."

Smithers sighed, and wished he'd asked for a drink. He'd never actually sat down and spoken with Leon like this before. The man had a way of calming Smithers' nerves. There was something about his soulful eyes, his soothing voice. Smithers felt his apprehension melt away, and the words that had been building up inside flowed freely.

Within minutes, he was telling Leon everything about his relationship with Montgomery Burns. Everything. From their working relationship, to their most private moments. He told Leon about the incident at AlkaliStark, then visiting Antoine and Preston in Plateau City. He spoke about his father's relationship with Burns, including the personal details Burns had shared about the true nature of their relationship till his father's death. Smithers told Leon about the injections Burns was taking to prolong life; about his fear not of growing old alone, but of being left behind while Burns continued to live his own life.

Smithers had expected to cry, or at least feel anger. Instead, he felt none of those things. He felt a sort of quiet peace as he spoke, as if decades of pent up feelings were rising to the surface, and getting gently skimmed away.

At long last, he finished, and looked at Leon. "I can deal with Burns dying. And I can deal with me growing old alone. But I simply can't handle the thought of him growing bored with me while my heath degrades; and leaving me for someone else."

"You're not afraid of death," Leon murmured. "You're afraid of being cast aside."

"Aren't we all?"

Leon looked thoughtful for a moment. "Cast aside, or cast out. I suppose we probably are." He reached out and drew a finger over Smithers' ring. "Do you honestly think he'd leave you?"

"I think so."

Leon shook his head. "I don't think he would." He tapped Smithers' ring a single time, then folded his hands. "I'd bet a silver coin to my name that he'd be standing beside you, pouring his heart and soul through his eyes, his words. He wouldn't leave you. He thinks he can, but he won't."

Smithers' brow furrowed. "How can you be so sure?"

Leon smiled, but Smithers thought he saw a hint of sadness behind the man's eyes. "Honey, I know people. It's kind of a gift. And sometimes a curse. But people are something I understand all too well."

Leon paused, and glanced at the clock.

Smithers followed his eyes. It was nearly ten at night.

Smithers suddenly realized the room had gone silent. The piano had run down. He and Leon were the only patrons left in the room. Leon stiffened slightly, and tilted his head as if to catch a faint sound. "We need to get you upstairs to bed."

"My day bag's in my car." Smithers rose, but Leon grabbed his arm and lead him towards the stairs.

"You'll just have to forgo brushing your teeth tonight. Tomorrow, after sunrise, you can get it. There'll be time enough to freshen up in the morning. Then I suggest you hit the road. Time has a way of getting away from people around this place." Leon slipped an arm around Smithers, and ascended the creaking staircase beside him.

"I'll see you to your room, but then I have to clean up downstairs." He brought Smithers to a room at the end of the hall, overlooking the main street below. "Please, stay in tonight. I can't force you to stay in," he took Smithers' hands and clasped them palm-to-palm again within his hands. "But please, listen to what I tell you. No matter what you hear, don't come out till sunrise."

A look of sorrow flashed behind his eyes again. Though he tried to hide it, Smithers caught it. "Leon," he pushed gently, "is everything okay?"

Leon smiled, and drew Smithers against him in a brotherly embrace. "Dear heart," he whispered softly, "everything's fine. I just wish I had more time with you. Unfortunately, some things cannot be helped."

Slowly, sadly, Leon reached into the collar of his shirt and drew out a silver coin threaded on a strip of leather. "Here, you'll need to hang this on the door knob. It will keep you safe."

Smithers reached into his right pocket, and pulled out the quarter and leather strip he'd gotten at the general store. "I already have one…"

Leon smiled, quickly threaded the coin on the braided leather, then hung it over the door knob. He placed his hands on Smithers shoulders, and drew him in for a final embrace. "It was good to see you again at our little way-station here. I'm going to miss you."

Smithers wrapped his own arms about Leon, feeling every last bit of stress melting away into the strong, and gentle man's arms. "Won't I see you again?"

Leon smiled sadly. "No, I don't think you shall. Not for a while anyhow." Leon leaned over and kissed Smithers once on each cheek. "You're a blessed man, Waylon Smithers. You're going to be just fine." Slowly, he let his arms fall and stepped away. "Goodnight, Waylon; and goodbye."

With that he turned, and headed back down the hallway towards the stairs, turning off the gas lamps as he went. Smithers watched Leon vanish into the shadows, his mind feeling oddly relaxed, but sad at the same time.

When the last flicker of light had gone, Smithers turned, went into his room, bolting the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

Smithers lay in between the rough but cozy cotton sheets on the firm twin bed, and drew the wool top-blanket up around his chin. Hercules had curled up on top of the covers, packing into a tight ball behind Smithers knees.

The room and world outside was silent. Not even coyotes howled in the distance.

Smithers found it almost too quiet.

Sure, the manor was was not loud at night, but there was always the faint hum of the power systems, the occasional bark from the kennels, the soft tread of the servants in the halls. Smithers hadn't realized how deep silence could be. It was disconcerting. Even Hercules soft breathing seemed muted against the deeper stillness.

Smithers was just starting to drift restlessly off to sleep when a rooster crowed once, into the darkness. As if on cue, the world exploded into sound. A chorus of yipping howls erupted from the distance, shattering the night air. From the center of town the bell in the clock tower, something Smithers hadn't heard before, rang out. The bell rang twelve times, then three more, the coyotes and cockerels playing a cacophonous background to the ringing tones…

Then everything fell silent once again.

Outside the curtained window, on the streets below, there came the soft crunch of footsteps walking up the dusty avenue. Long, slow strides. It sounded like several sets of feet. Smithers wasn't sure. He wanted to look out the window, but some fear in his guts prevented it. It was as if he were a child again. Smithers drew the blankets up closer to his throat. As if cotton and wool could somehow protect him.

There was a slight light from outside, bobbing in the street, and reflecting on the ceiling of his room. Not the bright beam of a flashlight, more the dull glow of a lantern. Smithers was glad he'd drawn the curtains, thin as they were.

Down in the street, he heard sounds like wind blowing over stone walls. An airy, not inherently frightening sound, that whispered and drafted between the cracks.

On the winter nights, while the snow swirled outside, he and Burns would snuggle together under a blanket by the fire. Warm and safe, they slept while the wind played its melodious song against the stones. Sometimes, Smithers imagined he heard voices in the wind.

The same voices as were in the street below.

Smithers shivered inspite of himself, and drew the blankets up higher around his throat. He wasn't sure what could even make that noise. _Windwalkers_ , he brain thought suddenly, offering a potential name. Smithers shook his head. He remembered a movie of the same name that he saw once, years ago in the theatre. Try as he might, he couldn't quite recall the plot. Something about death, or reincarnation, or something.

 _Windwalkers_ , his brain insisted. Smithers relented, and accepted the name.

The reflection of light on the ceiling had started moving again, broken into several spots. Many lanterns. Judging by the motion, one was headed towards The Roost.

Smithers' thoughts were confirmed as he heard the bat wing doors squeak open, and the soft tread of clawed feet on the pine plank floor. There was a faint ticking sound of the toenails, claws, whatever they were, being dragged lightly with each step. In the center of the saloon, Smithers heard the windwalker whistled softly, like an owl calling its young.

Outside, came an echoing gust in reply; the sound of something like a sheet or blanket being shaken roughly, then another set of feet moving away down the street.

Everything went still.

Smithers realized he was holding his breath. The only sound was his own heartbeat in his ears. Quietly he exhaled, then drew fresh air in gratefully.

The stairs creaked.

Lightly, gently, something was making its way up. Smithers heard a cloth-like rustle, the faint tick of claws on wood. In the darkness, he could see a hint of lantern light from the crack under the door.

There was no stealth to the footsteps, but they were not heavy either. The force beyond moved with a steady and deliberate pace, walking from door to door. From time to time, Smithers heard a door open, followed by a soft sound he couldn't begin to identify. If a warm spring breeze had a sound, that would be it.

The light under his door grew brighter as the figure approached.

Outside his door, it stopped.

Smithers heard the sound of fingers being drawn over the wood, starting at the top, and moving towards the knob. There was a faint _tink_ of nails on the glass knob, then a pause.

He heard the sound of the quarter Leon had tied 'round the doorknob being lifted gently.

A _whuffling_ sound, like a great beast catching scent on the wind. The coin dropped back against the wood with a rattle. Then a snort…

There was noise without sound, force without fury! Smithers barely had time to pull the blankets over his head as the force outside the door gave way to light and wind! … and was gone.

Smithers cautiously peeked his head out from under the covers. Dust, blown in from the hall outside, was settling out of the air, lightly covering everything that he could see from the dim light in the street below.

The torches moved off, the footfalls faded. Darkness settled once again.

Smithers reached a hand down to Hercules at his feet. His fingertips touched soft fur. The little dog started awake, and gave a squeaking yawn. _Herc, you slept through that?_ Smithers thought to the dog, not daring to speak aloud. The terrier stretched with a tiny groan, pushing his legs out in all directions, then relaxed. A few seconds later, the small dog was back to sleep.

Smithers would've thought he'd be up all night, but already his mind was drifting off. He struggled against the feeling, trying to force himself to stay awake. What if they came back? What if he had to defend himself. _What a lost cause that would be. Like fighting sleep,_ his brain muttered quietly. His body felt comfortable and heavy. _A very 'warm milk' sort of feeling_ , he thought peacefully, before he fell into dreamless sleep.

* * *

Morning came, and Smithers woke feeling completely refreshed. The light curtains at the window did nothing to block the sunlight streaming in. He yawned, stretched, and put on his glasses. He fed Hercules, and took the terrier out to do his business in the scrub behind the hotel. While outside, he paused at the Martin to grab his day bag, then went back upstairs to his room to change.

The saloon was quiet, empty. There was no sign of Leon or any patrons. Smithers changed, freshened up as best he could in the washroom down the hall, and packed what few possessions he had in the travel bag.

Hercules trotted happily by his feet, stub tail quivering, eager to get on the road.

Smithers stopped at the bar, and peered into the kitchen. Everything was silent, empty. He was debating how much money to leave, when he saw a note, held down with a lump of ironwood.

 _Dear Waylon_ , it began...

 _No charge for you last night. On the house. It was a pleasure to see you again. Take care of yourself._

 _All my love.  
Leon._

Smithers smiled sadly, and ran a finger over the words. _Goodbye, Leon_ , he thought with a pang of nostalgia, then headed out.

* * *

The Aston Martin was covered in a thick layer of white desert dust. Smithers resolved to brush off the windows as best he could, but didn't bother wiping down the rest of the car, lest it scratch the paint. He reached under the seat for a cleaning rag, then paused.

In the dust on the car were prints. They weren't quite hand prints, and they weren't quite paw prints. Not human-like, but not bestial either. They didn't even move the dust so much as make feather-light indentations in it. It looked as if the entire car had been patted down, grabbed, caressed; all with a delicacy lighter than wind.

Smithers shuddered slightly, not in fear exactly, but the hair on the back of his neck rose nonetheless.

He quickly wiped the dust off the windows, loaded up Hercules, and without a backward glance left the town of Dry Feather by the route he came in on.

* * *

Smithers drove slowly, not pushing the car like he had yesterday. Everything, even his fight with Burns seemed an odd and distant memory. Perhaps it was the morning sun, or perhaps the late night before, but he started to find himself feeling quite drowsy. Up ahead, he noticed, was a pull-off on the side of the road. A rest area of sorts, safe enough to get off the main highway.

Smithers pulled the car over, rolled down the windows, and killed the engine. It was still early morning yet. The desert air wouldn't get hot till later. He had some time to catch a quick cat-nap before the heat became unbearable.

So thinking, Smithers leaned his seat back, and removed his glasses. He set them in the holder above the center console, threw an arm over his face, and closed his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

_Waylon_ , a familiar voice muttered, cutting through the slumbering for. "Waylon!"

A hand was on Smithers' shoulder.

"Eh!" Smithers started and flailed for a moment, trying to make sense of the world. Burns' face, blurry albeit recognizable to Smithers even without his glasses, dominated his view.

It's disconcerting to wake up in a strange place. Even moreso to wake up in a strange position. Anyone who has ever passed out unknowingly, and come to lying on the floor knows that one. The shock and confusion that comes when the brain tries to make sense from the plane of gravity no longer being where one last remembered it. Smithers' mind reeled frantically, as he realized he was no longer sitting in the Martin. He was flat on his back, feet elevated, and Burns' aquiline visage in his face.

Burns grabbed Smithers' hand and squeezed tightly. He looked up to an unknown figure. "Ah, there! See, I told you I felt some flex in his fingers yet, did I not."

"Well indeed you did, Mister Burns, though I never would've believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Hehehe."

Smithers tried to move, but Burns pushed him back down. Ordinarily, it would be no contest of strength between them, but either Burns was stronger, or he was weaker. It was all very confusing. He gave up struggling and relaxed.

"Monty," he asked slowly, "where am I?"

"Springfield General Hospital; the Homer Simpson Ward… whoever he is," Burns added, looking away.

"Where's the Aston Martin?"

Burns narrowed his blue eyes sharply, and his face darkened. "They're still finding the pieces of it."

"Come again?"

Burns glowered at Smithers. "You wrapped it around a telephone pole barely a half mile away from the Carter-Nixon tunnel, just past the sunflower fields."

"I did _what!?_ "

"You heard me."

"No, that's not possible. I took it out, I went into the badlands. I spent the night in this town called Dry Feather, than I came back. That's it."

Burns snorted in disgust. "Your recollection is sadly inaccurate. You must've been going too fast, lost control. You struck a telephone pole side on. Essentially, you vaporized my car." Burns made an exploding gesture with his hands. "How you managed to survive at all, let alone with nothing more than a few scrapes and a concussion amazes me. It should be pieces of you they're still sorting out from the wreckage. You've been unconscious for a week."

Smithers took a moment to digest that. He reached up, touching the bandages wrapped around his head. A week, he'd been asleep that long? It seemed like mere hours. He didn't remember the accident at all. He and Hercules had been heading west…

"Hercules!" Smithers shouted, suddenly awake. "What about Hercules!?"

Burns folded his thin arms across his chest and tried to look emotionally detached. "Remarkably, the little beastie fared as good, if not better than you. He's out bouncing around the kennel as we speak, probably wondering (once again) where his inconsiderate master has gotten off to this time."

Smithers lowered his chin.

"I'm sorry about the car, Monty. Truly. I'll pay you back."

Burns made a dismissive gesture. "Bah, forget the automobile, Waylon. I've already got another one on order from Europe. It's inconsequential, it can be replaced." Burns' face drew in, and he sighed heavily. He sat down on the bed next to Smithers, and put a hand on the younger man's chest. "It's you that can't be replaced, you know," he muttered, not able to meet Smithers' eyes. "I can have all the things in the world, but I can't buy another you. Money's a remarkable tool, my dear, but even it has its limits."

Smithers reached weakly out, and laid a hand on Burns' thigh.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. Smithers wasn't even sure what he was apologizing for. The car, leaving… their fight. He didn't even know. Smithers shifted his weight slightly, pulling Burns closer with what little strength he had. "I probably over reacted-"

("-You didn't.")

"-I wanted to grow old with you." Smithers looked up at Burns.

"And so you shall." The older man still looked away.

"No," Smithers looked away. "I mean I wanted us to grow old together. I'm going to grow old, and with… what you're doing… you'll just stay the same."

Burns shook his head. "That's not true, I'll age… a little."

"And what about me, Monty? Are you just going to stand idly by as my mind and body falter, watching as a I lose a little bit more of myself each year? Are you going to promise to stand beside me? Or will you just step back and say 'I'm sorry Waylon, that's too bad.' Will you take care of me in my final hours? Or will you just pawn my care off on some faceless doctors and set out in search of some new young thing that catches your fancy? These are the questions I have to ask, Monty. These are the things that weigh on my mind."

Burns covered his face with his hand, and turned even further from Smithers' imploring eyes. "Waylon," he whispered softly, "please don't ask this of me."

"I'm not asking you to do anything for me. I'm asking to find out what you're going to do when I… you know."

Burns hunched over and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I've already come too close to losing you. This incident makes twice now." He looked over his shoulder, meeting Smithers' eyes. "I don't think I could manage to lose you again, for real. The fact that you are here now is a second chance I don't believe I truly deserve."

Burns turned, and took Smithers' hands in his. Smithers was struck by how cold Burns' hands felt. Smithers longed to take them to his chest and warm them.

The older man, however, was still stronger right now. Burns pinned Smithers hands to his heart, and lowered his head. "Your life has been spared, by forces beyond my own power, I fear. I've given this much thought these past long days." He gave a wry smile. "What good is life if it's not spent with the living? I've avoided that far too long." He held up a hand. "Now, before you get ideas that I am going to stop taking those injections, let me clarify: For as long as you shall live, I will abstain. I shall stay here for you; and yes, I shall grow old with you. If I shall die before you, that is a fate I've decided to accept. And if I shall outlive you by Nature's will, I cannot promise then I won't seek to prolong my own life once again."

Burns leaned forward, touching his forehead to Smithers'. "I'd give up eternity if it meant spending one more day with you. I don't want you to die; but I can't have you leave. Tell me, dear Waylon, if I were to ask you to spend your life with me, forever and a day, if that what it takes, would you take my hand; would you say yes?"

Smithers closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Burns'. "Are you asking me to marry you, Monty?"

Burns chuckled softly. "Inelegant as always, aren't you. But I suppose, yes, you could say it that way."

Smithers smiled, unable to open his eyes lest the tears start. He reached up, and clasped the back of Burns' neck with a weak hand. "For you, Monty, the answer's always been yes."

He tilted his face up, lips meeting Burns.' Their embrace was soft, sweet, and everything either man ever hoped it could be.


	8. Epilogue

Life continued on as usual at the Burns Manor; Waylon Smithers and Monty Burns falling back into the comfortable domestic routine they'd come to know so well. Aside from the addition of a rose platinum band on Waylon's left hand, inset with tiny white diamonds, and a matching one on Burns' left hand, any differences were subtle.

 _I didn't even know they made rose platinum_ , Smithers remarked at their private ceremony.

Burns smirked. _They do if you're rich enough_.

Smithers' mind had been preoccupied with the visions he'd seen while in the coma. Everyone said you weren't supposed to dream while unconscious, but Smithers couldn't forget the images.

Finally, one night, he sat down at his computer and started searching. It took a bit of digging, but he was finally able to track down Leon's full name on the internet. Leon Abdeel D'Angelo.

Unfortunately, it was not a site he wanted to see.

It was a list of the Plateau City Obituaries.

Leon Abdeel D'Angelo was found deceased in his home that May that Smithers had been in Plateau City. The authorities had investigated, and concluded no evidence of foul play. Leon had suffered a heart attack, and simply not woken up. He died peacefully in his sleep.

Smithers stared at the date. That's why he wasn't around when I tried to find him, Smithers thought sadly, covering his mouth with a hand. That's the night he died.

Smithers bowed his head, and offered a silent prayer.

He clicked back on the browser, and found a small poem Leon had written a few days before he died. Leon apparently wrote many short poems.

 _Got a message late one night._

 _A wakeup call from Him_

 _He called me up to come on home_

 _With a silent little hymn._

 _I know that I won't be back now_

 _Yet I don't know what I will see._

 _So I shall watch over my friends_

 _And see them home safely._

Smithers felt the hair raise on the back of his neck. _No_ , he muttered softly, _it's just a coincidence_. He shook his head.

So thinking, he shut the lid to his laptop and was debating pouring himself a strong drink where there came a knock at his door. Without waiting for permission, Monty Burns walked in, his face slightly befuddled.

"The Springfield police finally finished picking up the last of the wreckage from the accident," he remarked. "The found your day bag wedged under a tree several dozen feet away. I had them bring it back here, and had the maid toss your clothes in the wash. When she went through your pockets, she found this. Does it mean anything to you?"

Burns held out a single silver coin, an antique quarter strung on a braided leather loop.

Smithers reached out, wonderingly, and took it, folding it in his hand.

He smiled with a gentle sorrow. "It means everything to me Monty. Thank you."

Burns nodded, expression vaguely perplexed. He waited a second for Smithers to say more, then shook his head and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Leon Abdeel D'Angelo. The name meant: _Lion; Servant of God; and Angel._

Smithers slid the coin in between the cover of his father's Bible, sat back in his favorite chair, and closed his eyes.


End file.
